Reflections on a Lost Love
by MaryEvH
Summary: Companion one-shot to my story One, Two, Tick, Tock (with spoilers!) that takes place six years after the barricade. R&R!


Éponine sat at the window of the flat, her eyes closed, her right hand resting on the sill as she contemplated what could have been. Six years had passed since the June Revolution of 1832, and she was alone, living in the same flat that she had shared with Enjolras for about 3 weeks before the revolution started. They had essentially lived in the Café once planning took over their lives.

Not a single day went by that she didn't remember the Marble Man of her past – his tall stature, his broad, muscled chest and shoulders, those blue eyes that could pierce her soul if he tried…yet they always looked at her with a tenderness whose depths she had never known before him. Sometimes, in these interludes in her day, she would close her eyes and imagine a world where the Amis had won their revolution, she and Enjolras had married, possibly had a child together…she smiled as she thought about staying home with the baby until he came home from the university.

_She heard the keys in the lock on the front door as she balanced the baby on her hip. Soon, it opened, and there he was – huge smile and all, as he always was every time he laid eyes on his wife and child. "Hello, you," he'd smile, putting his keys in the bowl by the front door as he closed it, and gently kissing her._

_"Mm, hello," she'd answer, also smiling, as the little boy reached out for his father. Enjolras would take the baby from her, resting his tiny body against his thick chest and gently patting his back with one big, but gentle hand. "How was school?" she'd ask, starting to cook dinner; she'd gotten better after the baby was born._

_He'd shrug, still rocking their little boy. "The same as it always is – it has its wonderfully interesting moments, and its wonderfully dull moments when I wish I could be here," he laughed. "How was he today?"_

_"Wonderful," she'd beam. "As he always is." Her husband would smile, kiss her again, and take the baby back to his nursery once he fell asleep. Then they could be free to eat, talk, laugh, and make love until they fell asleep._

Her eyes opened and she sighed, wishing it could be real. A single tear slipped from her eye, her hand slowly fisting on the windowsill as the bitterness returned. She still had these moments, even after all these years – the anger, the bitterness, the resentment that he had to die and leave her here, completely on her own. She never blamed him for holding Patria as close as he did…but even so, a small, selfish part of her heart wished she could have been first in his heart.

She got up from the window and went back to the small bedroom, still furnished exactly as it had been when he was alive. She sat down at the writing desk in the corner, pulling out a piece of paper and pen, pondering what she wanted to say.

Ever since he had died, she had written him letters. Sometimes they were about the good days, sometimes about the bad days, and others, on the days she missed him so much it hurt. They were anywhere from a few paragraphs to a few pages, depending on how much she had to say. The first few had been awkward and covered in tears – some still were, even as she opened up to the piece of paper in front of her. After a few moments, she began to write.

_7 July, 1838_

_My dear Enjolras,_

_As I sit at your old writing desk, putting these words onto paper, I think even more about the life we could have had if you were here. I still miss you every day, and I wonder what you would say to the things going on in our France these days._

_I had another dream about our make-believe future just now, before I decided to write to you – we had a son, probably four or five months old, in my mind. You were just coming home after another day at the university. It was our typical little discussion – you took the baby from me to put him down for another nap, we talked about our days, and did what we always used to do – just enjoy each other's company._

_Six years you've been gone now, my love, and it still feels like yesterday that I lost you. The pain is still there, all the time – not as sharp as it used to be, but still present, every time I walk around this little flat we used to share. At night, before I go to sleep, sometimes I feel like I can still hear your voice, your laugh, your breathing on my neck. It eases me to sleep, and when I wake up, the pain of the dream returns._

_I know you would have wanted me to move, on, but I have no plans to marry. That would be the final blow to your memory, and I cannot bring myself to kill you again that way. I loved you too much, and still do. I could never love any man the way I loved you. I miss you, and I hope to see you someday._

_All my love, always_

_Your Éponine_

Éponine set the pen down and looked at the finished letter. Shorter than some of her others, but longer than some she'd written. With a small smile, she carefully folded it and placed it in an envelope, which she then sealed. Carefully, she wrote "Enjolras" on the outside, placing it on the stack of letters next to the desk; she estimated that she had written over 200 since his death. She'd lost count over the years.

She relaxed in the chair and closed her eyes. As he always was after she wrote a letter to him, he was there – just as he was on the morning of the revolution, the day he died. He was smiling, reaching out to her, and she could almost feel his arms wrapping around her small form, his breath in her ear as he whispered to her, _"Je t'aime."_

_"Je t'aime aussi,"_ she whispered back to empty air.


End file.
